


One Caress

by withthepilot



Series: Catholic Schoolboys AU [5]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blasphemy, Catholic School, M/M, Religious Themes & References, Schoolboys, Underage Character, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris isn't quite sure how to tell Zach about what transpired in the confessional booth with Karl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Caress

**Author's Note:**

> Part 5 of the Catholic Schoolboys AU series.

Chris spends the first twenty minutes after waking trying to formulate a plan to somehow stay home from school. He's forced to get out of bed when his mother comes into his room, touches his forehead and, finding no evidence of fever, orders him to get showered and dressed before breakfast gets cold.

He goes into the bathroom, once shared with his sister who's now off at college, and eases himself into a hot shower. Chris presses his forehead to the cool tiles and thinks about Karl manhandling him in the confessional booth, smearing his own blood across his cheek. Reciting Bible verses in a way that made them sound like pornography. The way he just left him there, holding his own dick on the floor like a piteous wretch, with a distant ache that still burns a day later.

He tries not to think about Zach and what he would say. It's not his job to care about stuff like that.

As for Karl, it's definitely not over. But Chris doesn't yet have any ideas about how to even the score and that pisses him off more than anything. He grunts and turns off the taps, grabbing his towel in a huff as he exits the shower.

Chris parks his scooter in the lot and keeps a scowl on his face as he enters the school building, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. Father Bruce walks by and tells him to fix his rumpled tie and Chris happily ignores him. What he can't ignore are all the girls going past and pointing at him with devious smiles, as if they're privy to some juicy gossip that revolves around one Christopher Pine. He wrinkles his nose and tries not to sneer at them; bad PR, if he ever wants to fuck them in the future.

He gets to his locker and opens it with a slam of his fist to the door, just above the lock. A note flutters out and he barely catches it. The cursive of "Chris" on the front of the folded paper is in Zach's handwriting, and just seeing it makes his heart beat slightly faster. _What's that about, anyway?_ he thinks. Chris moves to open the note when Zoe Saldana suddenly appears beside him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He grunts and shoves the note into his pocket instead.

"What?" he asks, so not in the mood. Zoe tilts her head, the light waves of her hair sliding across her shoulders, all held back in place by a demure headband.

"So, I hear you're going steady," she says, smirking.

Chris rolls his eyes; he's still foggy from a lack of sleep and the brutal ass-plundering he endured yesterday, and it doesn't make a difference to him that he has no fucking clue what she's talking about. He simply gives her a smarmy smile, batting his eyelashes.

"And I hear you found your clitoris," he replies. "I could have shown you where it was, if you were looking that long for it."

Zoe, of course, stiffens immediately at his words, punching him in the shoulder before she can even remember that he shouldn't know such information. Once she figures it out, she straightens up and shakes her head.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, primly. And then: "Asshole."

Chris laughs faintly as she sashays away, even though his shoulder smarts from the punch. He takes a book out of his locker and pulls the note from his pocket again, reading it with a sigh.

 _Confessional booth after school? Missed you yesterday._

 _Zachary_

He purses his lips, digging out a pen from his bag. Thanks to Karl, he's not really in the mood for the confessional booth today. He owes the bastard a punch in the face for ruining that for him, even if it's only temporary. Chris leans against the locker as he writes a reply on the same slip of paper, hunching forward so no one sees.

 _Not really feeling it today. Maybe tomorrow. Sorry._

 _CP_

Chris frowns as he signs his initials, already feeling a little guilty for blowing him off. But he's walking around with a slight limp as is and he doesn't want to have to explain to Zach why he can't take his cock today. Just another item to add to the growing list of reasons to make Karl Urban's life completely miserable. Chris folds up the paper and shoves it into a slot in Zach's locker, backing off before anyone notices. He starts walking toward the stairs when someone stops him, grasping his shoulder. Chris half-expects to see Zach or maybe John Cho, come to bitch him out for defiling his saintly boyfriend; instead, it's Eric Bana, the school's star quarterback and dumb jock extraordinaire.

"Pine," Bana says, lifting his brow. "We just saw that Quinto kid walking around in a leather jacket that looks like yours. He steal it from you? We can get it back."

Bana's voice is steely enough to let Chris know that it's a promise, not just an idle threat. He feels a hint of panic rush through him until he looks down the hall and catches sight of Quinto, carrying his giant backpack and sporting Chris' jacket, the one he let him borrow. A dizzying feeling of warmth spreads through him at the sight of Zach in his clothing, an arousing sense of ownership that he tries not to show in his expression, even if he wants nothing more than to go over and fuck Quinto hard against the lockers...again. Chris licks his lips and opens his mouth soundlessly, Zoe's quip and those knowing looks from random girls all making so much more sense now. He mentally curses them all for being so smart and, at the same time, thanks the heavens above that Eric and his friends are, in comparison, so very dumb.

He's also incredibly grateful that he decided to wear his spare leather jacket today. Chris motions to it and somehow manages to drag his gaze away from Quinto, shrugging at Bana. "What the hell does it look like I'm wearing, Bana? _This_ is my jacket. The kid's probably just trying to imitate me."

"Huh. Yeah, I guess you're right."

Bana nods, placated for the moment, and reaches out to slap Chris' back lightly, walking away. Chris blinks, realizing he probably just spared Zach a beating; he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He watches as Zach finds his note and reads it, looking away when the other boy shoots him a confused and disappointed glance.

Just then, he hears Bana again, along with a couple of his jock friends, crowing with dumb laughter and taunts. Bana grabs Quinto by the arm and catches him off-guard, another large boy holding him still as they pull the jacket off him, calling him names. Chris frowns as that reckless sense of ownership charges through him again and, completely on instinct, he runs over and pushes Bana's friend away from Zach, grabbing the jacket out of the quarterback's hands before he can protest.

"Leave him alone," he says with a growl, only half-aware of what he's doing. "He didn't do anything to you."

"Pine, what the fuck?" Bana says, his face painted in shock. Chris sets his jaw and prays that his popularity pays off this time. He stands a little straighter when Bana and his friends actually listen to him and back off. Bana sneers as he says, "What's up your arse today? Christ." Chris just forces himself to look away; his stupid Australian accent reminds him too much of Urban.

Chris looks over at Quinto, standing there and adjusting his tie, looking stoic and shy as usual. He tosses him the jacket and the boy catches it clumsily, pulling it to his chest. Zach nods faintly, looking slightly jostled but otherwise put-together and more than ready to be debauched. Chris wants to say something but he knows the others are still in earshot and he can't think of anything besides _Be careful_ or _Jesus Christ, you look hot in my jacket_. When the bell rings, he uses it as an excuse to simply turn in the other direction and walk away.

The day seems to crawl by and Chris knows he probably looks as uncomfortable as he feels, sitting in the rock-hard slabs of wood that the school calls "chairs." He's able to tolerate it until Algebra, throughout which he squirms and brings more attention upon himself than intended. The teacher tells him to stop fidgeting at least twice and Zach throws him a concerned look that he does his best to shrug off. It's Karl's glare that puts him on edge the most, a small smile curving his lips as he observes Chris struggling to rest his backside against the unyielding seat beneath him. Chris somehow resists the urge to snarl at him, feeling like a wounded animal under his gaze. He hates it. When the bell rings for lunch, Chris grabs his books and flees the classroom, making sure not to look at a single person on his way out—not Karl, not Zach, not anyone.

Chris ends up in the boys' room, huddling in a stall and rummaging through his bag for the painkillers he swiped from his mother's medicine cabinet that morning. He pops one into his mouth and swallows it dry, gasping faintly as it scratches its way down his throat. He's half-considering just blowing off the rest of his classes when someone knocks at the door of his stall. Chris looks up from his crouch on the toilet, grunting in annoyance.

"Occupied, idiot."

"Chris? It's Zachary."

Chris blinks and stands up quickly, a little dizzy as the altitude change disagrees with the painkiller coursing its way through his bloodstream—strong stuff, he knows from experience. He shakes it off and opens the door, squinting at the dark-haired boy and whispering. "Quinto? What are you doing here?"

"I was worried," he simply says. He looks around and then smiles faintly to Chris. "There's no one else here."

"I know, just...ugh." Chris rolls his eyes and tugs him into the stall by his forearm, locking the door behind them. He touches Zach's chest lightly before dropping his hands, not quite knowing what to do with them. "Sorry," he says, feeling dumbfounded by the fact that Quinto followed him here.

"Don't be." Zach tilts his head, letting his eyes roam over Chris' face—those dark eyes that Chris swears burn right through him. "You looked so miserable in class. I just wanted to see if you were okay."

"Christ, Quinto," he says, laughing faintly as he shakes his head. He only quiets when he feels Zach's hand slide over his jaw. The touch is warmer than he expects it to be and he leans into it, swallowing down any words that could stand to ruin the moment. He feels somewhat delirious, standing so close to Zach in such a confined space; not that confined spaces are anything new for them. "You looked so good in my jacket," he finally says.

"You looked so hot, defending me."

Chris jerks his head up at that, the seemingly insignificant sentiment somehow lighting a fire inside him. Zach smiles knowingly and slips his hands under his uniform jacket, arching a brow for permission, which he must think he needs because of Chris' earlier brush-off. He only has to nod once before Quinto's lips are crushed against his own, their hips immediately sliding together. It's so easy now, and so fucking good, so much better than it was with Urban that it makes him want to crumble a bit, fall to pieces right in Zach's arms. He wants to tell him everything. But he can't; he won't.

He'd asked for it, after all. Karl had given him exactly what he wanted. And Zach, well...what would Zach even _say_?

He clutches at Zach's arms as they explore his chest over the thin fabric of his uniform shirt, licks and sucks at his lips and tongue as their mouths clash. Chris reaches up and fists a hand in the short hair at the back of Quinto's neck, knowing he wouldn't want the rest of it mussed, not with a whole afternoon of classes ahead. And since when does he care about what Quinto wants, anyway? Chris ruffles his hair then, just because, and Zach makes a noise of protest; then he just laughs, showing off a brilliant smile that makes Chris sort of weak in the knees. Or, hell, that's probably just the painkiller.

"Fuck, Zachary," he murmurs, kissing the smile fiercely. Quinto presses against him, dropping a hand to slide down the back of Chris' trousers.

"Is that what you want?" he teases. His fingers lightly graze the skin between Chris' buttocks and he gasps as a flash of fresh pain rips through him.

"No, don't," he warns, pushing Zach away. And Quinto just steps back, looking at Chris in bewilderment—which is good; Chris isn't sure he could handle a wounded puppy stare right now. "I can't," he whispers, unable to meet those dark eyes.

"Okay," Zach replies, nodding. "Why not?"

"I..."

Chris feels himself pale, not quite knowing what to say to Zach. He thinks about Zoe's mocking tone, the "going steady" crack, and he can't help but wonder if there's not a glimmer of truth to it. He doesn't want to tell Quinto what happened because it means that he might leave, that he might not want to do this with Chris anymore. Sure, they're just messing around, but Chris knows he gave Quinto that damn jacket for a reason. But hell, something about Zach just makes him want to be honest. And if he bails, well, Chris can get sex elsewhere—if he wants to. That, he knows for sure.

"Karl, um...caught me in the confessional booth yesterday," he starts, licking his lips nervously. He exhales and looks at Zach, shrugging. "It still hurts, is all."

"Karl Urban?" Zach asks, his face going slack in surprise. And then something changes—his eyes narrow just slightly, the line of his mouth tightening. His voice, however, remains quiet and calm. "I'll fucking kill him," he says.

Chris squints at him, shaking his head in exasperation. "No, don't be...no. Come on, you know me. I was _into_ it, okay?"

"You _thought_ you were into it. Right?"

Zach purses his lips and looks at Chris in a way that makes him feel dizzy all over again. This is not the reaction he expected from Quinto and it's freaking him out, making him question everything. What the hell is the kid even _talking_ about? It doesn't make sense.

"No, I was...I _used_ him, Quinto. 'Cause that's the kind of person I am."

Zach frowns at Chris, pressing him against the wall. He looks at him for a long moment before kissing him, slower this time. Chris shudders and lets himself melt into it, though he's still confused that Zach hasn't tried to deck him or run out of there crying. He's doubly surprised when he feels fingers that don't belong to him pulling at the zipper of his trousers, pushing down the fabric along with the boxers that Chris decided to wear today. Quinto's tongue flickers against his front teeth as his hand closes around his cock and Chris bucks, overwhelmed by the touch. It's almost like he can feel all of his blood rushing between his legs, the effects of the painkiller leaving everything else pleasantly numb as he throbs in Zach's grip.

"Fuck," he breathes. He grabs onto Zach's blazer as he's pumped steadily, and Chris just knows that Quinto is good at this because of all the self-love he must practice at home. That particular thought makes his cock twitch, as it always does.

Zach tucks his nose against Chris' ear, whispering slowly, as if to calm the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "I _know_ what kind of person you are, Christopher," he says, nipping his earlobe. He twists his hand gracefully, running his thumb along the sensitive vein of the shaft. "You're a pervert and a slut at the best of times. But you look at me. You're the only one who _looks_ at me."

Chris makes a desperate noise in lieu of all the things he wants to say. He can't _help_ but look at Zach; so fucking beautiful and regal, so innocent on the outside and wicked on the inside. Chris hisses his name and fists his hand tighter in his blazer when he feels those talented fingers lightly squeeze beneath his cock; they toy with the head, playfully skimming back and forth against the damp, sensitive skin. He can barely make out Zach's words, his voice practically molten chocolate sliding over him, but he forces himself to listen; he can give him that much.

"Tell him," Zach murmurs, moving his hand faster, the other disappearing between them as well, "if he ever touches you again, that you belong to _me_. You're my whore, Christopher, and I'm yours."

Chris' mouth drops open just as Zach's other hand teases its way between his parted thighs, stroking him along the untouched skin between his balls and his entrance. Just one caress is all it takes, and Chris is thrusting into his hand, gasping his pleasure as he comes, sticky and hot across Quinto's open palm. When Chris opens his eyes again, Zach is simply staring at him with lust written all over his face, holding up his slick palm to his lips. Chris grips his wrist and accepts the offering with a faint moan, licking Zach's hand clean, sucking his fingers into his mouth until every last trace of himself is gone.

As the last digit leaves his swollen lips, Chris looks at Zach through half-lidded eyes, feeling a pang of pain from the punch he took yesterday. It barely bothers him now.

"You thought I'd freak out," Zach says, pulling him forward by his tie to kiss his mouth gently. He shakes his head, helping Chris pull his boxers and trousers back up, zipping and buttoning him up neatly. "I want you too much. And now that I have you, I'm not letting you go."

Quinto reaches down and undoes his own trousers, and Chris lifts his brow in astonishment when he sees that the kid has picked up on his commando habit. He lets his gaze travel up to Zach's wanton expression and back down again, to his flushed and upright cock.

"Yeah, me neither," Chris idly says. He sinks down to the floor of the restroom and slides his palm along Zach's aching length, relishing the answering sigh he hears when he takes him, eagerly, into his mouth.


End file.
